Love is a fire that burns yet burns unseen

Love is a fire that burns yet burns unseen, A wound that injures, yet without distress, A happiness that is not happiness, Sorrow that is no sorrow yet is keen; 'Tis rather not to love than love, I ween; To wander among men companionless, To deem no blessing that which still doth bless And count that gain which but our loss hath been. Love is a voluntary imprisonment, Service to one who is not victor rendered, Loyalty to one upon our death intent. Yet since love to itself hath not surrendered, How can its favour breed in men content, Or in their hearts find service freely tendered?